Me and Tommy McCree
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: Response to the ATSB Call-Out Challenge Use 10 Random Cliches. Murdock's new obsession leads him to an unusual destination, one he'd all but forgotten.


"Me and Tommy McCree"

2009 by Mizhowlinmad (HBF)

Summary: Response to Pam's ATSB Callout Challenge: Use Ten Random Cliches. Murdock has a new obsession, but he's completely unprepared for where this one leads him.  
Rating: PG for some mild profanity and angsty thoughts.  
Disclaimer: TAT belongs to SJC and Universal. I'm borrowing them (OK, just Murdock) for a little unexpected side trip down the San Diego Freeway.  
Warnings: None.  
Dedicated: To Mr. P. I miss you.

"If you don't go to other people's funerals, they won't come to yours." ~Yogi Berra

To a casual observer, it didn't look like February. Winter was another time, another place, another hemisphere. The air was thick with the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle, and a gentle breeze with the slightest salty tang underneath rustled the palm fronds. 71 degrees.  
There were still a few days when Raul Castillo wished he were back in Newark. Today wasn't one of them.  
Sure, the salary the VA paid barely cut it. The hours were long and his flat feet hurt like hell when he got home. The patients...well, they made the ones back there seem almost normal by comparison. But after just four months out here, Raul knew he wasn't going back to Jersey except maybe for holidays. Just waking up in California every day was worth driving a wheezy old Beetle and sharing a place with three other guys in Irvine.  
He felt his fingers twitching again. One of those irritating side effects of eight hours of nicotine depravation. They didn't let you smoke here, some drivel about it being bad for the patients' state of mind. But his shift would be over in a few hours. He could wait.  
"Hey, Raul," said a nasal voice behind him.  
"Hey yourself, _chico_."  
A tall Irishman with the body of a linebacker and the face of a choirboy, similarly clad in white scrubs, joined him. Ian Flaherty was a fellow Northeastern transplant, and maintained his South Boston accent. He'd been out here much longer than Raul but was as pale as the day he arrived. Side by side, the two men resembled a modern-day screenwriter's idea of Mutt and Jeff.  
"So, who'd you get today? Been working a lotta Saturdays recently," said Ian.  
"Landis."  
"The Praying Landis?" Ian laughed.  
"Uh-huh."  
Ian did a passable imitation of the unfortunate Landis. "Lucky for you. All he ever does is...what the hell is it, anyway?"  
At the bottom of the small hill, Corporal Hewitt Landis was delicately balanced on one foot, arms flung to either side of his body, chanting underneath his breath in a muttered monologue. The orderlies pushing invalids in wheelchairs gave him a generous ten-foot radius.  
"I think it's _loco tai chi_, man. No telling," Raul guessed.  
"Huh. I thought he was into karate," said Ian, pronouncing it _ke-ratty._"All that 'Grasshoppah' stuff."  
"I thought so too," Raul agreed solemnly, not bothering to mention that the phrase had been made famous on _Kung Fu_. "Maybe he got tired of it."  
A moment passed, and with it a warm gust of wind. Ian, unlike Raul, was not the kind of man to let a few seconds of silence pass unchallenged. "Guess who drew the short straw today?" he asked, with all the seriousness of a talking animal mascot at a children's party.  
Raul took a moment to respond, as he'd been watching Landis' attempts at martial arts. "Dunno."  
"If I told you I'm on a run of bad luck, what would your answer be?"  
"I was wondering who got Murdock this week." He decided to humor his gullible co-worker. "Say, did he ask you to help him look for Vernicious Knids yet?"  
"Vernicious whats?"  
Raul smiled to himself. "That's just the first drop in the bucket with this Murdock guy, man. He's pretty scared of the damn things; thinks they're gonna come out and eat him at night. First night I was here, he calls me in at three in the morning, makes me look on my hands and knees for forty minutes. Then I finally realized it was his idea of a hazing ritual. He never said anything about it to me again."  
Relieved, Ian wiped his brow. "Oh. So it's another one of his cuckoo hallucinations? Like that dog he's always chasing around?"  
"That's his dog, apparently. He's pretty serious about that. Just let it go, all right? He's not so bad once you get to know him," Raul said in a tired voice. "Once you get past the..."  
"Shitcake insanity?" interrupted Ian.  
"I wasn't gonna use those words." Raul forced down a chuckle. "Look on the bright side. He'll probably break out of here before week's end and you'll be off the hook anyway."  
The taller man shaded his pale eyes against the sunlight, which had broken through a patch of clouds. "What's his thing right now? Man, it's harder to pick out than the sixth at Santa Anita."  
"Pretty sure it's still newspapers. Didn't you send Crawford out for 'em this morning?"  
"Yeah," Ian said, his eyes sparkling with recognition. "I do remember now. He asked for every damn paper old man Vicenzo carries: the _Times, _the _Courier_, even the OC and San Diego papers. Reads 'em cover to cover. Weird. It's not like he's gonna get to the sale at Penney's or anything," he joked, not noticing Raul's skeptical smile.  
Raul didn't answer, because he'd come to realize that the understanding of Murdock's many quirks, like the true fate of Jimmy Hoffa or whether aliens had ever made contact with mankind, were beneath his scope of understanding. He just nodded.  
"Where does he go all these time? Dodger Stadium? Santa Monica Pier? The Hollywood Bowl? Disneyland, for Christ's sake?" Ian wondered aloud, ticking off the possibilities on his right hand. "Richter never seems to care; treats the guy like a goddamn housepet."  
"He's always back for bed checks," Raul pointed out, eyes fixated on Landis and his martial artistry. The corporal was engaged in what looked like a spastic Salute to the Sun when a younger orderly, not paying attention, strayed too close. He got an earful of shouted Asian obscenities for his troubles. Ian laughed heartily; Raul didn't.  
"Hey, Ian, you seen Murdock recently?" he asked, interrupting.  
The laughter stopped. Ian's Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat as the realization set in. He'd already lost track of his ward once this week.  
"Well?"  
"Hell if I know! He asked if he could take his damn dog for a walk around the grounds, then I think he sat down underneath that eucalyptus tree!" the redhead shot back, his Bostonian dialect becoming more pronounced with every word.  
Raul sighed. "You take the sports field; I'll start looking down here. Whistle twice if you see him, and for God's sake don't startle him."  
He had changed his mind. He did wish he were back in Jersey after all. There had never been anyone like Murdock at the Newark VA.

_"Never be, your beast of burden..."_  
H.M. Murdock sang to himself, quieter now that Billy had drifted asleep. He made the old Stones tune sound like a sweet lullaby. One corner of his mouth curled in a lopsided smile as he sang.  
He lay sprawled on his side, propped up by one elbow, careful not to disturb his slumbering companion. Beside him, a tall stack of today's _L.A. Times, Hollywood Reporter, Long Beach Gazette, Orange County Register_, and a half-dozen more carefully re-folded newspapers. Currently he perused the _Courier Express, _the last of today's lot.  
The rag hadn't been as interesting, or inspiring, since Amy's departure for Jakarta. Murdock's eyes flicked from a story about a house fire in Inglewood to one detailing a carjacking downtown. Great. He had of course read the comics first, because Charlie Brown and Garfield, so far as Murdock knew, had never shot a Korean tourist point-blank because they were in need of a heroin fix. Apparently Ricky Youngblood, 24, had done just that in West Hollywood yesterday.  
He scowled and resisted the urge to crumple the Metro section into a ball. He had spent a quarter on the paper, and there were always uses for it. Vernicious Knids seemed to enjoy newsprint, and it was the perfect bait to draw them out of their nocturnal hiding places. His crooked smile returned upon this realization.  
_"Pretty pretty pretty, pretty pretty girl," _crooned Murdock through the chorus, seeing Billy's ears twitch happily in his dreams.  
Done with the Metro section, he re-folded it and added it to the discarded stack. The sports page was easier. The Lakers beat the Celtics, and the Dodgers had just opened spring training. No one had gotten shot, robbed, or fallen off a luxury yacht and drowned. At least there was some good news. There was one more section to read, the "E" section where the editors seemed to lump all the miscellany that didn't fit anywhere else. Few Angelenos bothered to read this dusty corner of the paper, but Murdock was bound. Cover to cover meant cover to cover.  
Somewhere close by, Wyczak, the supervisor of the orderlies this shift, announced in his booming voice that recess was over. Murdock barely heard him. He opened the section and began to read. Having exhausted his playlist of Stones songs, he mentally switched to John Lennon.  
_"Imagine there's no heaven..."  
_Page 3E featured a large ad for a local mattress company. As Murdock turned his attention to 4E, his eyes widened. He had to read the third sidebar a few times before he was sure it was not a byproduct of his heady daily cocktail of psychotropic drugs or a symptom of his nagging memory loss. He squeezed his eyelids shut, wished that the paper would somehow magically disappear.  
When he opened his eyes, it was still there, burned into the newsprint. Anyone but him would have overlooked it. The words had sped up his heart rate from a gentle adagio to a nervous allegro in a matter of seconds. The words stuck in his throat. The song stopped.  
_"I''ve got to get out of here._"  
He was surprised to hear himself speak the words aloud. He'd have to escape on his own. No Faceman this time.  
Time was short. They'd find him in a minute or two. Murdock nudged the sleeping Billy and shooed him away. With the quick thinking born of years of life-or-death situations, an idea came to him. It was crazier than most of his normal thoughts, even, but it was the only one that suited his needs.  
_Hannibal, I hope that "Jackalope" plan of yours works. We only ever talked about that one, never had a dry run or anything.  
_"Hey, there you are!" Ian Flaherty crashed through the foliage, pale face flushed and panting hard. "You wanna come on in before I break out the straitjacket, pal?" he yelled, exasperated and annoyed.  
Murdock inhaled. _Here goes, Colonel.  
_"Jackalope" was tricky. He had to let the big orderly get within almost arm's reach. Then he flashed his best Crazy Man grin. "Sorry in advance," he said.  
"Sorry? You're gonna be sorry. You're just a crazy nu..."  
Ian's speech was interrupted by Murdock's right fist making solid contact underneath his jaw. He dropped to the ground, unconscious, and Murdock dragged him behind some azalea bushes for cover. Making sure no one was around, he removed Ian's scrubs and put them on over his own clothing. Given that the Irishman had about 40 pounds on him, they were sufficiently baggy. Luckily Ian also carried his wallet. Murdock removed all the cash it contained, a twenty and three fives, and tossed the rest. He stuffed the bills into the scrubs pocket and scooped up his jacket and baseball cap.  
Murdock knelt down and whispered an apology. Ian wasn't one of the nice guy orderlies, but even if it were part of the plan, nobody liked getting cold-cocked and robbed. The guy was going to wake up with a splitting headache and a bad temper.  
_OK, phase 1 was easy as ABC. _Murdock rubbed his hands together. He hadn't expected everything to go this well. He knew phase 2, like most of Hannibal's plans, was the real challenge.  
"Jackalope" meant scaling the wall without the aid of a grappling hook or rope. Since Murdock had scouted the outer perimeter on one of his many sojourns outside the hospital, he knew there were three possible escape routes. Two were being carefully watched after he'd used them before, which left the cluster of palms on the south lawn as his only option. On the other side was Westwood Boulevard and freedom.  
He heard his CO's voice, clear and strong. _No risk, no reward, Captain.  
"_Ian! Quit horsing around down there. You find Murdock yet?"  
It was Raul, one of the newer orderlies. He'd spotted him dashing across the grounds, and looked confised. Murdock shouted back in a passable imitation of the Bostonian.  
"Still looking. Just gimme a few more minutes, 'kay?"  
Raul shook his head and turned his back.  
It was now or never. Murdock sprinted toward the palm trees and leapt in full stride onto the shortest of the group. He'd never practiced this, and he'd forgotten to cover his hands. But he gritted his teeth and climbed two, four, six feet up, and after a moment found himself flush with the top of the concrete wall. An overhanging frond on one of the taller palms was just out of arm's reach. Murdock strained, clinging to the small palm, took one hand off...  
_SNAP.  
_The foliage gave way under his weight and he tumbled over the wall to the sidewalk below. He landed on both feet and groaned. Right in front of him, a little dachshund peed placidly on a telephone pole as the middle-aged lady holding his leash gasped in surprise.  
"Fire drill, ma'am," said Murdock, improvising. "We're checking all the possible exits from this facility. This one is safe. This concludes our test."  
Leaving the still stunned dog-walker behind him, Murdock dashed down the busy boulevard to an empty phone booth at the corner of Grenada and Westwood, where he stripped Ian's whites and replaced them with his familiar clothes. Operation Jackalope, phase 2, was a success.  
Phase 3 would normally be one of the guys picking him up. There would have to be a slight deviation today. He had to get to...  
Murdock frowned. What was the address in the sidebar?  
In his haste, he realized he'd forgotten to write it down or commit it to memory. He wanted to kick himself. But there was a name...maybe a cabbie would remember...  
There was a yellow sedan coming down the street. Murdock exited the booth and flagged it down. Its driver, a mustachioed man in a ratty Angels cap, rolled down the window.  
"Where ya headed?"  
Murdock gave him the name "You know it?"  
"Yeah. Down in Venice. Rough area. You sure you're goin' there?" The hack raised an eyebrow.  
Murdock thrust the thirty-five bucks at him. "If you can get me there in twenty minutes, keep the change."  
"Hell, yeah! Hop in!"  
The tires squealed. Murdock drew a deep breath.  
He'd never rehearsed for this. Never even thought about it. His heart was a steady drumbeat.  
This time, he truly was on his own.

_TBC_


End file.
